


bend

by ashbuhdash



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: EWE, F/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 00:17:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5764486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashbuhdash/pseuds/ashbuhdash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frankly, he’d been afraid of bars and pubs. Muggle ones were a world he hadn’t quite figured out, governed by unspoken rules he couldn’t seem to grasp. She’d been the one who helped him learn: and it had started that night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bend

I

There was no reckoning for the fact that they both had ended up spending so much of their time in Muggle London. But, she reflected, that was life. Unexpected, implausible, and sometimes just right.

 

* * *

 

II

It had been a long road since war's end. The time immediately following had seemed like something out of a dream - spackled with brilliant light, surreal in its bittersweetness: the heartbreaking joy of retrieving her parents. The absolute relief at having lived through hell, and the survivor’s guilt undercutting it. The shrieking laughter that Harry and Ginny had shared. Too many tears, too much grief, for so many violent holes ripped in so many lives. The simple joy of living with hot water again!

And Ron: he had been everywhere with her, and all over her, and she all over him. And her whole world had seemed comprised of long fingers, freckles, the squinting laughter surrounding eyes of deepest blue, new secret discoveries, and lips that were rough and chapped. When dark memories bubbled to the surface, Ron had been there.

It had been the most glorious, and the most harrowing, summer of her life.

...

There had been a lull immediately following war's end - but soon after, a Prophet journalist had dubbed them _The Trio_ , and interest had surged. Ron had relished the sudden attention. More than that, Hermione reflected, he had thrived under the gaze of the public. She couldn't blame him, really. Hidden in the shadows of his high achieving siblings, his chosen-one best friend, and (she somewhat grudgingly admitted to herself) the overachieving brains of his girlfriend - hidden behind all of these, Ron had been slowly and quietly growing into a man. A man worthy of the world's attention.

Harry, though he continued to dislike it, had lived his entire adolescence under a watchful public. The unwelcome penetration of the wizarding media was life as usual. And Harry, like Ron, had somehow transformed into a man right under Hermione's unaware nose. She twisted it a little reflexively, still somehow unable to believe how grown up her friends had become.

She, however, had not adapted so well. Everywhere she went, there was a witch or wizard who knew her only as _The Brightest Witch of her Generation_. And while this commendation had always brought her an internal flush of pride during her school years, it now made her feel idiotic and trite. Everyone cared about her opinion on anything, and for the first time in her life, she was finding herself wont to give it.

Perhaps this was her own point of growing up. She'd thought the three of them had grown up plenty fast during the war. Oh how much more it turned out there was to being an adult!

And so, after returning to Hogwarts to complete her seventh year, Hermione had shrunk away from the wizarding world she loved so much. It started slowly - seeking solace at libraries and bookshops in Muggle London, catching a cinema in dark obscurity.

It became a point of contention for her and Ron. As he had grown to love the attention of the Prophet, she shrank from it. He couldn't understand why she pulled her hand from his when photographers were around - and she couldn't seem to put into words he understood how her innermost being screamed to be left alone by them all.

And on one particular night, their arguments had risen beyond all control.

She still cared for him immensely - he was her first love, and still one of her best friends. You never forget your first love, the stories said: some part of you always aches for them. But the drift was inevitable.

...

And so, she had moved out of their flat. She found an apartment with Muggle neighbors, took a job at her uncle's bookshop, and threw herself into a nominally non-magical life.

And to her unexpected delight, London opened itself to her. For an 11 year old who knew nothing of the wizarding community, magic had been entirely new and exciting: a world waiting to be discovered. For an adult witch who had spent most of her childhood in the moors of Scotland, London was similar: the world for someone of-age was entirely different, and full of opportunity. Against all odds, Hermione had discovered that she really, really liked living in Muggle London. Theirs was a world almost untouched by Voldemort and, at this point in life, that was what she craved more than anything.

...

“What are you doing, Hermione?” Harry asked, despondently, over their weekly coffee. She heard the subtext in his question: no one had expected her, the passionate, overachieving, top-marked student, to disappear – to show zero interest in any number of exciting careers. But for once in her life, Hermione didn’t care in the slightest what people thought: she was learning about the world, and enjoying herself along the way.

...

She could feel herself healing, slowly. Mostly.

 

* * *

 

 

III

The Malfoys had escaped war in better state than any of the other Death Eater associates. Lucius’ imprisonment by his own side and Narcissa’s protection of Harry had both been corroborated by witnesses and Veritaserum, and there had been an emotional trial in which Harry, Hermione and Ron (the latter grudgingly) testified that Draco had protected them as best as he could in the events of the manor.

But in the end, there was a large amount of political wheeling and dealing, information shared, former associates tracked down. If the Malfoys knew one thing, it was self-preservation. 

Yet the consequences were far reaching. Socially alienated from wizarding society, Narcissa and Lucius had all but permanently relocated to parts unknown in mainland Europe. Draco abandoned the manor too: his childhood home now felt haunted by memories from the year it hosted the Dark Lord, the year he and his mother spent there under house arrest. An obscure, deceased Black cousin had left Narcissa a tiny flat in London: until now the family had shunned it, as the area it occupied had deteriorated into entirely non-magicalness. But despite the years of disuse and neglect, and the dodgy address, it was a perfect escape.

It was _his_. 

...

It wasn't long before Draco grew to like the hectic bustle of the city. He liked the way Muggles stepped into the street and raised their hand to make a taxi appear, as if it had been accioed. He liked the new skyscrapers that bulged in odd shapes against the sky, and still looked exactly as large as the contents they contained. He liked kebab shops, flashing neon, salty ice on the streets, the feeling of being jostled in a crowd where no one was pointing hexes at his back.

Mostly, he liked that when people looked at him, it wasn’t with hatred or disdain. One of these people had been a Muggle girl with long legs and a Northern accent, and she had been only too happy to help a foreigner – finally, all those hours of summer French tutoring put to good use – procure an Oyster card, among other things. Suddenly the Underground was open to him, and with it a whole new world of discoveries. He liked that birds and blokes would catch his eye on the tube. He liked the whoosh of air and noise as the trains sucked their way down the tracks and pulled the atmosphere along with them. 

And, in a way that Draco would have never expected, he was fascinated by the ingenuity of Muggles who had built these tubes. He liked to think of the web they created under London, chasing each other over and around in dizzying patterns. 

He would’ve _never_ expected to like being a human better than being a wizard.

 

* * *

 

 

IV

The smell of icy rain on his wool overcoat took him back to the night he’d first seen her. He’d been wandering around Shoreditch, admiring the smear of neon reflected in puddles that would soon be ice, when a shadowy silhouette caught his eye. He'd become quicker at recognizing magical residue, given his constant non-wizarding surroundings – and that bundled figure had left an unmistakeable whiff of magic in her trail. The air had been cold and steamed with her breath, and for an instant the brisk pace and wild hair sparked a memory, far back. It couldn't be possible. She’d flitted inside a bar so quickly it was hard to tell. He had turned quickly, pausing to check for cars as he’d seen other Muggles do (he was getting quite good at it, almost natural: swiveling his head right, then left, then right again), and then jogging across the street before his brain had quite caught up with what he was doing.

Trying to maintain his composure and to not look like a peeping tom, for Merlin’s sake, he looked through the windows. Her hair was slightly tamer than it had ever been in the school days, but the quiet grin (and the fact that she’s already settled in the corner over a book) was unmistakable.

What are the odds, Granger? He mused quietly to himself. Perhaps it is because she is the first witch he has seen in months – or perhaps it is the way the puckered glass bends her image slightly, into a shape he's never seen before. But suddenly childish tauntings and house rivalries seem very, very far away. 

He pulls the heavy door open and steps into the warmth.

 

* * *

 

 

V

One sniff of peaty scotch and he is immediately back in the midst of muggle London, the second night they met up: the first night she’d taken him out. The name escapes him (The King's Trousers? Cock and Ball? or some such nonsense – none of the pub names made the slightest bit of sense) but the sensory memories are strong as ever. He remembers the gleaming wood of the pub interior, the shining backplate behind the bar with more bottles than he could possibly identify. She’d put her hand on his arm to pull him close.

"I’ll order for you, if you like. I’m assuming you don’t have a muggle drink?" She had automatically leaned in close to quietly ask, her words further muffled by the crowds around them.

"Certainly not," he leaned in closer, teasing. The heady scent of his cologne filled her nose, and she eyed his pristine lapels, immaculately pressed sleeves.

She settled back, making a play for the upper hand again. "Okay. Muggle lesson #1–"

He rolled his eyes, that even something like drinking would have a lesson plan from Granger. Really, he should have known.

"-You have to know where you are to know what to order. Different drinks for different places, right? A place like this," she gestured to the shiny wood bar, "you can get something nicer. A good mixed cocktail, quality neat drinks. Muggles have more varieties of liquor and beer than wizards, so you simply have to experiment. Wines are largely the same, but you'll have different names for the same varietals."

...

As she waited on the bartender, she found his reflection in the mirrored backsplash. Well. Leering was certainly something she’d expect of a Malfoy.

...

She found him again with two glasses in hand. “For me, Bowmore. One of the best damn scotches on earth. And for you, something a little easier to start. This is a seven and seven: let’s see if you like whisky.”

The short glass and light amber color certainly looked reasonable. Hers was darker and much shallower, but he could smell it from across the table. “Gods, yours smells like a swamp.”

She favored him with a mocking smile, “Well you don’t start with scotch, my lightweight pupil. You build up to it. Lesson #2: when you cheers, you must,” and she leaned in, raising her glass as he picked up his own, “ _must_ look the person across from you in the eye.”

He mirrored her body language, leaning in conspiratorially. “Why’s that, Granger?”

She held his gaze, “No eye contact means bad sex for seven years.”

Well that was unexpected! “No. You’re shitting me, Granger. Taking advantage of being my teacher, and filling my head with rot.”

She laughed and bit her lip. “No, it’s truly a Muggle superstition. Swear to Godric. Or...you can always risk it.”

“Blagh,” he faked a gesture of distaste. “Well in that case,” he raised his glass to meet hers, and held her gaze.

“Cheers, Malfoy. Words I never thought I’d say.”

Her smile is warm and he finds himself returning it, clinking her glass, and then taking a sip. It was…a little sweet, and a little sharp. He could see himself liking this.

“Lesson #3: round-buying is crucial. I’ve bought your first round, so you absolutely must pick up the next. Right?”

 

* * *

 

 

VI

A few days later, with the awful taste of morning in his mouth, he is unceremoniously woken by an urgent tapping at his flat window. A clearly overburdened owl is frantically trying to get his attention, and when he finally gets the blasted latch open, it divests its package with a hoot of disdain, and takes wing again without waiting for thanks.

"Good bloody riddance," he mutters to himself, "Waking a man at half seven."

There's a note attached to the brown package wrappings. The letterhead paper is far too thin, but the stamp that reads _Granger & Sons, Est 1851_ is in fine, embossed ink. In tidy handwriting, the note adds: _Study materials, for your further benefit._  

More eye rolls –  _Gods, this reunion is going to loosen them right from the sockets,_ he reflects, but he tears off the paper anyway. For a moment his breath is quite taken: in his hands is a truly fine book, beautifully bound in an old-world leather and stamped with gold letters. It wouldn't look out of place in the manor library, a rare thing in a world losing its taste for books.

Tentatively, he opens the cover and scans the table of contents. It lists more kinds of liquors than he could have imagined, with stories of history and geography, tasting notes, pairings...quite extensive, really. The next thing he knows, an hour has passed and he is going to be late for breakfast with his parents. _Buggering shite_ , he growls at the book, but takes the extra second to carefully lay it on the table before leaping into action.

 

* * *

 

VII

Piney gin is a few days later, in a hotel bar in The City. The taste is similar to the distilled drink his mother always had after dinner, but with the addition of lime and soda. It was possibly his favorite so far in this weird experiment he'd fallen into.

“Third year. You hit me. Pottie and Weasel’s heads almost went rolling.” He remembers the sharp coppery taste of blood down the back of his throat.

She drew a breath to chastise him over the names, but his eyes caught hers and his grin was teasing. She chuckled, how easy it was to fall back into the old patterns. “What are you on about?”

“You asked me when it changed. It’s hard to pin on one moment, but I would say that was when…when it began.”

“But, but that was so long ago.” Her brows were knitting together, gears audibly whirring in her brain, the same look of trying to solve an arithmancy problem when the sums weren't agreeing. “And you were so cruel to us.”

“Well, that was a beginning. A Slytherin couldn’t admit it to himself, but it was deep down there, buried somewhere.” He took a sip, pausing to let her mentally catch up.

She smiled, and tried to make light. “So, what… are you into…pain and all that?”

He shrugged noncommittally, and stroked a line through the condensation covering his glass, but his gaze was firm. “More, I’ve always had a thing for women who don’t take shit. There’s something about a woman with fire in her eyes.”

 

* * *

 

 

VIII

His smiles were rare, this one. She liked making them happen, especially the genuine ones that caught him off guard: ever-composed face betrayed by an unconscious tug at the edge of his mouth, the corners of his lips slowly unfurling into a _grin_ of all things.

His fingers twitched and flexed, involuntarily aching to get hold of something. To get hold of her? She wondered.

 

 

* * *

 

 

IX

Bitter hops takes him to a few weeks later, where they’d crowded around a standing table at her local. He’d learned the purpose of a tab, which had no wizarding equivalent: at least, not in the establishments his parents had frequented, where a line of credit was always automatic for the Malfoy family.

After setting up his tab, Hermione had insisted he order a local brew. Privately, the lager top she’d ordered him tasted like piss, but hell if he’d let her know that.

She watches his eyes trail after a pair of twenty somethings who were pushing their way to the bar. She grins. “Keep it in your trousers, Malfoy. Muggle lesson #8: how to hit on girls in bars.”

“Granger, I do not need help pulling…least of all from you!”

Her grin only widens. Privately, she can hardly believe she's just seen human nature winning over pureblood breeding: somewhere a pig has surely taken wing. She continues, “There’s a method to it: if possible, you want to catch her eye from across the room, but don’t stare. You want her to feel noticed, not stalked.”

He rolls his eyes in mock disdain, but she can tells he’s listening. “Now, if you get some interested eye contact back, you can order her a drink. You can be direct and go up and ask…but something tells me the Slytherin style is to have one sent to her.” She cocks an eyebrow at him, but he refuses to take the bait and smiles cooly, sipping his pint o’ piss.

“You go up to the bartender and ask what she’s having, then ask him to make her that drink...and add it to your tab."

"Convenient," he concedes. "But shouldn't I take it to her myself? How does she know it's from me?"

She stiffens a little at this, "Never take a girl a drink yourself. You remember the spat of love potion rapes a few years back? Muggles have a similar shit streak, but this is a pill that can be dissolved in a drink. Different chemistry, but same reaction. Girls, if they’re smart, don’t trust drinks from blokes they don’t know. That’s why you have the bartender deliver it to them: that way there’s nothing shady."

"Right. So, bartender delivery only. Noted."

She gives her head an emphatic shake, “And then…the rest is up to you!”

 

* * *

 

 

X

She loves the fine fabrics and the immaculate tailoring that Draco’s wardrobe always boasts. Ron snorts and calls him a sodding clotheshorse, but Hermione rolls her eyes and thinks that there is nothing like an Englishman in a fine suit. She finds excuses to touch his clothes: hanging his cashmere scarf on her coat rack when he visits, tucking an arm in his to feel the warming charms imbued in his overcoat, running a finger along an exquisitely hemmed cuff. It’s ridiculous to be seduced by a wardrobe, especially for her, Hermione Granger – girl who never spends longer than ten minutes getting ready in the morning, who chose a thrifted overcoat for warmth, she who is constantly scourgifying ink stains that have been present for who knows how long?

But there it is. Draco’s wardrobe has spent the last three months seducing her.

It might also have something to do with the body wearing the clothes, but Hermione pushes that thought aside…again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

XI

The taste of cloves remind him of the night it all changed. The alley behind the bar: a new one, rather divey, and he’d been surprised she’d known of this place. He could still feel her warmth pressed into his side for the side-along apparition, her fingers gripping his arm, hard.

It made something deep in his stomach pleasantly twinge, just thinking of it.

...

He took a hard draw on his cigarette. The tip flared orange in the dark, for a brief instant illuminating a furrowed brow, aquiline nose. Her question hung in the air.

“I don’t know,” he confessed through an exhale of smoke and breath, the two mingling in the cold air. His eyes glittered at her through the gloom.

“Well. I _do_ know,” she ventured, “that we are in muggle London, where no one will recognize you. Or me.” She took a step closer, and he felt his fingers itch to grab hold of her. And could it just be him, or was the air around them alive with more energy than a coursing tube train?

She digs the toe of her boot into the pavement. “I know that you have been meeting me every week. And every week,” he watched her gather a breath and possibly the fabled Gryffindor courage, “you find excuses to touch me. You listen. You wear those bloody tailored coats and… “

“Been thinking about this much, Granger?” he tries to tease, but it comes out a little too broken.

“Have you?” she counters sharply.

He takes another long draw, glad his hands have something to do. It’s a small risk, but he fixes her with a look, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“And I know that I want to get back in that bar, find a dark corner, and make the most of our anonymity.”

A twitch of fingers sent the fag tumbling, a practiced step darkened it, and then his hand was at the small of her back, spread wide and firm, as they walked quickly back towards the entrance. “Your wish is my command, Granger.”

 

* * *

 

XII

They’ve been sleeping together for four months when he finally sees it. The first heat wave of summer had settled on London, settled on them. There’d never been a better time to have a lover, and to forego clothes – even ones so fine as Malfoy’s.

In the early morning light of her bathroom, she goes about her routine: hair pinned to the top of her head, cool water on her face. The rhythms of her life have changed remarkably since Malfoy’s arrival in it, but this routine is ever the same.

She notices the concealment charm on her forearm is wearing thin, and reaches for her wand to reapply – but she jumps as his hand wraps around hers, stalling the motion. Catlike, he had entered the bathroom without her noticing.

“Draco,” she begins, but doesn’t know how to continue. He’s looking at the half-worn charm – the scars beneath just visible. She’s been afraid of this, knowing that someday it would have to happen, and wondering what on earth would be the fallout.

They have history, after all, and it’s more than schoolyard fights.

Gently but firmly, she shakes off the hand holding her wand. "Finite incantatem," she whispers, and the scar melts into view. The harsh words, _Mudblood_ , cruel capitals in her flesh, carved by his sadistic aunt, in his childhood home. And now he’s here in her shabby bathroom, wearing nothing but his pants and holding her wrist tightly. The look in his eyes is ice, but other than that he has masked his face. She hates when he does that – hates where it came from, a skill borne of necessity during the war, and hates that it means he’s locking away something powerful now.

But then, he takes a deep breath, and reaches out his left hand, palm up so his forearm is bared. She takes in the blank skin, so much paler than hers. A lift of his eyebrows confirms, and she wordlessly waves away his own concealment spell. The dark tattoo blossoms, bruised ink spilling across flesh and veins to form the skull and writhing snake. Not as dark or defined as it once was, but still marring his skin.

He’s the first to speak, a few minutes later, and his words seem to come from far away. “Sometimes, it feels like it happened to a different person. A different life that I just happen to carry memories from.”

She remembers Crucio-pain searing through every inch of her body, and wills it away. “I know.”

“Death eaters…we were supposed to be trying for immortality: but who would want an eternity of that? I can…” he pauses, “I can hardly imagine a worse one.”

“We were just kids,” she whispers. “Caught in war.”

“But far from innocent,” he reflects ruefully. He won’t look her in the eye, and he’s also dropped her arm. The mask is deepening, pulling him in and away.

A panic rises in the back of her throat. Bring him back! “Do you want to know something? Why I never had it removed?” She fixes him with a harsh gaze. “Because it did happen. It is part of my life, no matter how much I wish it wasn’t. It is. But every time I see it, that scar is a reminder of everything we fought for, everything we won. And it’s a reminder that I survived. It’s a reminder of my strength. There’s nothing I can’t live through.”

A shiver goes through his whole body and something instinctive in her clicks, and in a rush she is holding him, and his arms are about her as his body shakes. “Do you feel me?” she whispers into the skin of his shoulder, digging her palms into his back. “Do you feel how strong I am? How alive? Do you feel yourself?”

He shudders again, but his grip on her tightens so much it hurts. She doesn’t care, only responding with further strength, nails and fists now digging into his muscles. Nothing physical could hurt as much as she does: as her rage for their ruined years, their nearly ruined lives. “Do you feel the miracle of this? You and me? “

“ _I remember you._ Your screams, Weasel’s yells echoing through the walls, her _laughing_.” His voice shakes and his hands are pulling at her too, as though he could tear apart the past.

“But she’s gone.” She’s kissing him, biting him with every sharp thought, all of it flowing together. “It’s our world, not hers. Fuck the past, fuck her world, fuck every last evil bit of it.” The strength in his arms, his neck, the strands of his hair catching morning light, is dizzying.

“This is our world, OURS. We’re the ones standing, against every odd stacked in their favor. US.”

Her ears are ringing, as he fists her hair and pulls her lips to his. She can taste rage and pain and regret on his tongue, in the corners of his teeth, in the salt on his cheeks. She hopes he can taste it in her as well. That he can feel it as she ruts against him, desperate.

“Hermione,” he gasps into her mouth, and her given name is ragged and deep from the back of his throat, and sweet on his swollen lips.

The sound of his voice slows the frenzy that has been building. She realizes her face is wet, but doesn’t know if it’s from her tears or his. Maybe both.

She’s conscious of their breathing, deep gasps from heaving chests, as his hands soften on her back. The light outside is strengthening, the city is waking up, and something imperceptible has shifted.

“Fuck the past,” he agrees, but it’s softer than when she said it. He releases her slightly, enough to wind their left arms together: two sets of scars almost touching.

“These say we bend the world to our will. Not the other way around.” He brushes his lips to their interlocked fingers, reverently. “These say, we did more than survive. We live.”

 

* * *

 

XIII

_God bless the rage in us. It’s how we know each other._

 

* * *

 

XIV

Later on, he brews tea. And it's that taste, strong and scalding, that always makes him think of her, and that ratty flat apartment, and how much they found there.

They drink it knotted in her sheets, both of them covered in bruises from earlier. But these ones: these bruises are good. Marks of their choosing, physical manifestations of the complicated intensity they are for one another, too difficult and weighty for words alone: blushes beneath skin that only come from being alive.

They'll leave this behind, perhaps: a whole world is waiting for them. He feels it, just on the other side of day, and for the first time in a long time, he relishes the possibility of something.

But for now, he wraps a brown, curling strand of hair around his finger, and her regular breathing tickles across his chest. And Draco muses that something significant has slid into place. Something implausible, something unexpected, something just right.

 

 


End file.
